


Follow Me Down

by weytani



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/F, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weytani/pseuds/weytani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two women in a hotel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> turn back now, all ye who seek smut

Shaw's eyes follow her around the room, tracking every movement with an interest bordering on predatory. The curtain of brown hair that slides over her shoulder as she kneels between Shaw's feet, the pucker of her lips as she wets the pad of her index finger and presses it briefly to the hot metal surface of the iron; every move she makes carries the weight of that hard gaze and Root thrives in the heat of it.

She can almost see the shadow of a lithe cat's tail flicking to and fro like a pendulum behind Shaw's back, counting down the minutes until Shaw's full body strength returns, and while she once had the advantage of surprise on her side, a fully autonomous trained killer on the run isn’t something Root wants to deal with one-on-one. At least, not under these particular circumstances.

So she makes her move, wielding the hotel iron between them like an offer, and Shaw’s face is tight with intent.

“Last chance,” Root says, expecting nothing and receiving the gift of Shaw’s canines as they’re bared in her face.

Her fingers itch to reach up and pull Shaw’s lips apart, to trace the ridge of those teeth with her thumb. Would she bite? Root imagines she would.

Instead, she lowers the tip of the iron to Shaw’s chest and holds it there, counts to three, drags it down until it brushes the neck of Shaw’s tank top and pulls away. The captive agent doesn’t make a sound, but her jaw twitches once at first contact and her pupils are dilated when Root looks up from her handiwork.

“Again?” She smiles and shakes her head, resigned but affectionate like Shaw’s a bright-eyed child who wants another ride on the merry-go-round. The way her tongue flickers up against the roof of her mouth says maybe she does.

Root presses the edge back down against irritated skin, following the same path as the first time only slower, meaner. This time when she brings the iron away, her fingernail takes its place, scratching black on dark brown-red, and Root enjoys the contrast almost as much as Shaw’s expression as she drinks it in.

“How much longer is this going to take?”

Shaw’s voice is gravelly, but there’s an edge of real boredom there that pinches at the corners of Root’s grinning mouth. It’s not true, obviously, but the idea that Shaw could possibly be less invested in this encounter than she is doesn’t sit well with her.

Shaw exhales, turns her wrists against the zip-ties sluggishly, and says, “I think we both know I can take the heat.”

A spike of arousal threads together and knots tight at the apex of Root’s thighs. She takes her hand away from Shaw’s chest and settles it on her leg instead, fingers dragging idly over the cotton as she ponders the next step.

The iron was a fun idea, but Shaw is right. They both know it’s going to take more than this to break the ISA’s former golden child.

Of course the real Veronica Sinclair would choose a hotel with so few amenities to work with. There are a couple of butter knives on the table, too blunt to be useful, and Root doesn’t quite have confidence in her ability to bring real electricity into this without killing her captive. Honestly, she wishes she’d had more time to plan this out.

But for now, Root knows, there are other ways to get information.

Carefully, she puts the iron aside and settles back between Shaw’s knees, this time with her forearms pressed to the cushion, palms finding leverage on Shaw’s hips as she leans in close.

Shaw looks suspicious now, and her expressions have been so minute thus far that Root congratulates herself for getting even this much. Personality disorder, yes, but still capable of certain reactions. She’s counting on that.

Holding eye contact until the last possible moment, Root tilts her head forward and slides the flat of her tongue over the strip of burnt skin on Shaw’s chest, starting from the dip of her cleavage and up to her collarbone. Shaw’s body tenses and Root leans back just enough to smile slyly in her field of vision.

The injury looks even angrier beneath the wet sheen of Root’s saliva, and it makes her want to take the iron and leave matching stripes on every inch of Shaw’s powerful body, but they’ve already finished playing that game. Instead, she leans back in and closes her lips over the same area, biting and sucking until the line spreads out, forming mouth-shaped singularities like points on a phase line.

She’ll admit that this is just as much for her own satisfaction as it is to pull a reaction out of Shaw, but Root can feel Shaw’s knees twitching against her ribs, and shallow breaths against her hairline as she nips the skin. It’s far more distracting than it ought to be, and if Root’s hands trail forward absentmindedly to the curve of Shaw’s rear, it’s not really her fault.

Then Shaw lets out a noise so quiet that she almost misses it completely. It’s a groan swaddled in a growl, cut off like she’s trying to choke it back down her throat halfway through. And it’s enough to make Root tear away and look at Shaw’s mouth again, thighs shifting against each other at the second knot of arousal.

“Did you say something?” she asks, half taunting and half hoping she’ll get to hear that remarkable sound again.

No such luck. Shaw looks like she’s measuring Root up over an open plain, crouched and poised to jump her at the first opportunity. If Root wasn’t so certain of the counter-productivity of that, she’d probably let her. Maybe some other time.

“I’m going to kill you,” Shaw says.

Root squeezes with both hands and replies, “Give me the name of Aquino’s contact.”

“Hell no.”

Undaunted, Root takes the next step, sliding the jacket off arm by arm and folding it neatly before placing it on the table. She rolls up the sleeves of the button-down next, unfastening the first few buttons as she turns back to her hostage.

“Listen, Shaw,” she tries, flattening her palms against the chair cushion on either side of Shaw without making further contact, “maybe we got off to a bad start here.”

Shaw snorts in disbelief, but her gaze tracks down Root’s torso shamelessly and Root preens under the attention, arching her back and flicking her hair over her shoulder as she continues

“You’re looking for Research, aren’t you?”

Shaw’s face gives nothing away, but it’s a rhetorical question anyway. “Then we’re both after the same thing.”

A half-truth, and there’s nothing like surprise in Shaw’s expression when she hears it. Root supposes she wouldn’t be quick to trust a woman who’d previously jammed a taser into the side of her neck either, but they’re at the starting line of something ground-breaking here.

“We both have a lot to gain from a little cooperation.” She twists the final word as it forms in her mouth, lets it settle into something less than professional, and leans in close enough that Shaw could probably tear her throat out with those sharp, white teeth if she were so inclined.

Shaw doesn’t take the bait, just turns her head until they’re eye-to-eye again. Her nose brushes Root’s cheek, and Root can’t quite shut down the tiny quiver of excitement when she feels Shaw’s breath against her chin, warm and threatening.

“No offense, but I don’t play well with others,” she blinks, turning away. “Especially people who lie to my face. Sorry, _Veronica_.”

Root hums patiently, tapping a finger against Shaw’s thigh as she pretends to consider the rejection.

“We don't have to be enemies, Shaw. What I have to offer will more than make up for this.”

“And what exactly do you have to offer?” Shaw wonders, “I mean, that I can't take for myself once I've snapped out of these zip-ties and throttled you with the cord of that iron.”

A distractingly vivid image flashes through Root's mind unannounced; her back to the scratchy hotel carpet, fingers grasping for Shaw as she looms over her, hands wrapped in the wire as it tightens around Root's pale throat. Pain and white light and Shaw's legs clenched around her writhing hips as she gasps for breath.

It's not as sensual as the other fantasies she's indulged in up to now, but Root finds herself not unaffected by her own expectations of Shaw's violence.

“Let me show you,” she says, breathless and more than a little eager.

As Root pulls the boots from her feet and lines them up under the desk, Shaw’s head tilts back against the chair, and her mouth twitches in understanding when Root's fingers skid back up to the buckle of her belt, flicking it open with quick, unexaggerated movements.

She lifts her hips, putting to rest any concerns Root might have had about the lasting effects of the taser, and Root yanks her pants forward until they're halfway down her thighs. She stops to take in the sight of the undecorated black cotton of Shaw's underwear for a moment before looking up.

“Should I stop?” she asks, no longer teasing. This is her offer, and she wants to hear the acknowledgement of their partnership if it's going to go any further.

Shaw's tongue protrudes from her mouth slowly, wetting her lips as she watches Root, sizing her up as the seconds tick by.

“No,” she says finally, visibly squeezing the arms of the chair despite the passive look on her face. The zip-ties have made a crisscross of sharp red lines across the back of her wrists, but they're still intact. For now.

Root smirks, slips her index fingers into the waistband of Shaw's underwear and pulls until she's dragging them down along with the pants, over her feet and off completely. She drops the clothes into an unceremonious bundle and admires the view of Shaw's bare thighs, bruised and scarred in service to her country.

Steady fingers glide up Shaw’s calves, pulling her closer to the edge of the seat.

“Well?” she presses.

“Root. Call me Root.”

Shaw grunts but doesn't comment beyond that, and Root smiles, satisfied.

“I look forward to working together,” she says, lifting Shaw's leg up over her shoulder.


End file.
